


Impossible Dreams

by cathtice



Series: Tales of the Sixth Age [2]
Category: Werewolf: The Apocalypse, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 02:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10548364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathtice/pseuds/cathtice
Summary: The end of the world...(In terrible free verse.)





	

The first children of summer came, on bright-clad steeds with snapping pennons.  
The last few ranks of Falcon's blessed stood with silver klaives by their High King.  
New-created mastiffs danced round the Ragabash-Alpha's sun-touched wife.  
Vampires cleansed and steady stalked as a sect towards the final stand.

The Nation's heroes were severing the limbs of the beast - only these few  
Readied themselves in the breach. Readied themselves for death.  
A creature greater than war, greater than life and death, shook the earth.  
No mortal footsteps could cause it to weaken, cause it to pause.

No mortal foosteps stood in that first pass. Few immortals, as ranks withered.  
It took the scores of knights, the baying hounds; it took summer's sons and dawn's best-loved.  
It took nearly to the last the final ranks of lines of Kings. Then only eight stood there,  
Against a mountain - against the world.

The vampire's Bishop, chosen for wisdom, not for war; all claws and faith.  
His red right hand and knight of bone, who twisted bodies into strength.  
The vampire's black left hand, made more of steel than flesh and more of honour than of hope.  
Sun-dancing Sulien, once Fianna, now of Fion, stood beside her husband and her Alpha.  
While one lived, the other still could fight; and now they stood to die together here.

The High King, Cuchullain come again, with spear and crown and Arthur's sword.  
The high-flying, fox-laughing glowing child of Luna, jester and warrior.  
And his Merlin, his wizard, his fate-dancing trick-stealing loom-shattering back.  
What were they to do? Somehow hold back the tide? What were they to do - choose to walk away?

And so they charged.  
The Irish god-man was first to lay a blow.

A flea-bite.

A promise.

The Fink tapped shoulders, touched foreheads, gave them all a dream. That maybe...  
Then the sun rose on the battlefield. A shift and slide, and who'd have thought the High King  
A man to taunt his foe? And who'd have thought the end of everything a thing to follow where it's led?  
It burnt in the sun; screamed in its rage; broke attackers in its fury.

They took turns. Moving into place; each one burning soul and heart to protect a spark of hope.  
They took turns. Each one sacrificed their strength of will - because there was no other way.  
They took turns. Hitting, jabbing, gouging - clawing at things that might be eyes or heads.  
They took turns. Trading blow for blow and hit for hit, as one by one they changed the world.

The sun had singed it - but it was the steel-honed Hand who turned its strength back on itself.  
The Hand had breached it - but it was the King's own hand that widened the wound.  
The King had carved a deeper hole - and then came Phoenix' hope and gift, with men to war.  
Once a grandchild of Thunder; now, he lived on borrowed time. Still, he'd sell his seconds dear.

On the battlefield, Jack had fallen. The Heart of Fear was stopped. In the final place of Endings,  
Still the fight was fought. The sun fell in spikes; spearing down and down and down.  
A mocking dance, and allies hit allies; the fox-man making sure the perfect Hand could shatter.  
Four Finks were standing where three Rats had been before, each one driving deeper.

The spear called forth forgotten dead. The Grim Legion marched through minefields.  
They bought another breath; another chance. The Wyrm rose over them and still  
The fragile few were standing. A prize the King demanded - a prize he was allowed.  
The lord of fae showed him how to bleed his troops for strength.

Once more. Once more, and once more, and how many more once mores?  
Phoenix took his dues, and Robin took on the mantle of the fallen Galliard.  
The Merlin showed his colours, set them forth to fly; he changed the rules.  
Remade the rules, remade their fates, to let lady Luck look once their way.

The last blast came when all were weakened; it would have razed the troops.  
But with a laugh and shrug and cocky flash, Luna's chosen child took all the blow - and died.  
Time to play for keeps. The third explosion blasted through the distant Saint.  
Torvik waited for his challenge to be heard, and the High King took his sacrifice.

Excalibur carried now the dreams and might of the man who'd challenged Hell.  
The end of the world was slowing. The end of the world was less than once it was.  
Life was leeched from the walking corpse - the steel-made juggernaut absorbed -  
And spat out empty, wasted, poisoning the Corruptor in her death.

Then Merlin danced the future.

Cuchullain raised his blade.

Two wings of fire spread out wide.

The Bishop and his Templar, sharp-toothed monsters shown Gaia's grace, knelt.  
The Robin and his fae locked eyes, linked fingers, smiled in grace.  
The Saint-Sinner, naked and proud and Phoenix-blessed, faded into dust.  
The Fink twitched his mouth and tilted his head and rolled the dice, then paid.

A second pair of wings enfolded the man who didn't mean to be King.

He walked away, after.  
But that's another story.


End file.
